The Cure
by Orpah
Summary: England tells someone of his 'friends'. In the Tudor times. This can only end badly...


Just so you know, Unbreakable by Fireflight is a really great song. I use it for an inspiration song all the time.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this story! A word of caution, however; it might be slightly disturbing.

I don't own Hetalia!end/AN/

England was sure his breath was whistling out through his nostrils, and his lips were going numb from being clenched in between his teeth. A plea, though rather muffled, passed through his closed mouth, and it had to be the first time in years that he had sounded so tearful.

But it was having no effect on the people gathered around him, those that were supposed to take care of him and keep him in check. It had the least effect on the doctor bending over him, as others' hands held him down.

"Come on now, don't you want to be better? Open your mouth!" Despite the doctor's words, England was in no way cajoled into behaving; there was no way in hell he would let them do this to him. He wished he could talk, for then he could try and explain he wasn't in need of being fixed, especially not in this manner!

His stomach twisted and gnarled inside him at the very thought, and he desperately, desperately wished he hadn't confided what he had in his supposed friend, who stood off to the side in his bright court clothes and watched with the air of someone morbidly curious but not wanting to be dirtied. Why had he trusted some young mortal, who didn't have the years to appreciate fidelity to others?

A whimper escaped him, as the doctor pried at his mouth, trying to get it to open, and humiliation flooded his system. He was being treated like some animal, all because they couldn't understand! Kicking, he tried harder to break free once more, but was more firmly restrained with a "It's for your own good!"

There was no way in hell they were getting him to put that thing in his mouth! It was disgusting, he didn't need it, why didn't they get it? However, the tip of the nose brushed against his lips, as though the doctor thought that would entice him into opening his mouth.

"Hold his nose; he'll have to open his mouth then," the doctor said, nodding towards of the servants aiding him. England practically screamed, jerking his head around and trying the dodge the looming fingers of the servant. No, no, no! They couldn't do this to him!

A few unsuccessful jabs into his cheeks were followed by a clamp onto his nose, and England began to choke, desperately needing air in his panicked state, but also trying in vain to keep his mouth closed. His chest stayed with the same dirty air in it, as his esophagus began to close in on itself, trying to breathe without air. It burned, sending all rational thought from England's mouth as his mouth gaped open for breath.

"Eat it!" The mouse was shoved into his mouth, and he nearly choked on it; he couldn't spit it out, and he could feel the pure nastiness of a rodent just oozing down his throat and up his nostrils, causing tears to gather in the corner of his eyes. He shut his jaw on it, making a crunch as he bit through the bones and organs and lord knew what else in this creature.

A bone jabbed into his gums as he chewed again, and he gagged, sure he could feel the organs spilling on the back of his tongue. But there was no getting his head up if he threw up, and the horrifying truth was that he would probably drown in his own vomit, so he pushed down that feeling and chewed rapidly, trying to ignore what he was eating even as his insides shook with revulsion.

"Mmf!" he protested, as the hand of the doctor forced the mouse all the way into his mouth, causing it to jar against the back of his throat. He almost-heaved, breathing very heavily through his nose and closing his eyes tightly. There could be no throwing up; he had to muscle through it, because these fanatics would never let him up to breathe!

More crunching, the tail particularly nasty, as all the tiny bones broke into bits in his teeth, but he swallowed it in one choke, and gasped gratefully for air. His mouth was promptly pried open, and they examined the whole inside to make certain he had swallowed that horrible creature and every last piece of it. He didn't care at this point, relaxing bonelessly in their grip and trying not to dwell on what he had just eaten.

"Very well then, keep a close eye on him; I expect he's cured, but one can never say for certain." The doctor backed off, and England felt the hands release him. He collapsed against the floor, and for a few moments, just lay there.

It only occurred to him a few moments later, after the murmuring group was shuffling away, to scrub at his face and remove the tears that had stained his pale cheeks. In any case, he was sure he had learned his lesson; mortals couldn't handle the truth. They couldn't handle the fae, not anymore; it was up to him to only ever tell those who could understand, or else none at all.

There was at least one upside to this debacle: He was not likely to be considered insane again, so long as he kept his mouth shut.

/AN/ Anyway, so during the Tudor times in England, apparently a cure for madness was to eat a roasted mouse whole. Yuck.

I figured they would probably think England was mad if he mentioned Flying Mint Bunny and the like. So yeah, hope you enjoyed my little tiny story! Poor England…


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